Sent from a breeze

Thunderstorm . . .

Do I need to add words?
Why do we write, to say what we already know?
Why do we read, what we already feel . . .

The rain pours down . . .

And there I go again,
Distracting myself from the true feelings,
To recreate on the page – only, just words . . .

The rain pours harder, a downpour of power, a cooling of air, thunder crackling louder . . .
Tree-carried breeze, through leaves wet and cooled, meets me through my window, scent . . .

Scent . . .

-Sterling

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